Ne'er A Villain
by herebesherlocks
Summary: John Watson, M.D., is as well-educated as anyone. But no amount of compulsory literature courses could have prepared him for the secret of Sherlock's past. A Sherlockspeare oneshot.


**"All the afternoon he sat [...] wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him."**

**- Dr. John Watson**

**The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes**

John's worry began when he entered the flat to see that the skull had been accorded a new place of honor. On his chair. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Of course, Sherlock's absence could be—and had been—rightly attributed to anything from dozing behind the sofa to going door to door peddling flowers while disguised as an old woman ("It was _one_ time, John, and it was for a case!") to pestering Molly for spare body parts to arson. Lestrade had never been able to prove that last one, but during slow cases he still liked to ponder aloud just _what_ could have caused that building to collapse and _so conveniently_ too,_ just_ as the killer was about to get away, and watch Sherlock temporarily become a deaf-mute.

But there was no semi-conscious, dressing-gown-clad detective puddled on the carpet, no discarded parasol in the corner, no detectable trace of smoke in the air, and no ominously cleared spaces in the refrigerator. In fact, the flat was unnaturally clean, and the only indications of its tenants' usual diversions were stacked neatly on the corner table (old case files, usually scattered about the rug) or sitting in John's armchair.

The hollow eye sockets seemed to bore into John.

"Er, hello," he managed awkwardly, before it struck him to wonder why on earth was he talking to a skull and why was it sitting on his chair and had he been replaced and how did his flatmate get it back from Mrs. Hudson anyway?

The flatmate in question chose this moment to appear in his bedroom doorway in dramatic fashion.

"To be, or not to be," boomed the detective, in a rich baritone that would have made the Bard himself weep with joy.

John shuddered. Though infrequent, Sherlock's past bouts of poeticism had left impressions in his flatmate's mind that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Judging by Sherlock's noble poise and uplifted arms, this would be no improvement…

_But it can't be worse than the Poe phase, can it?_

Collapsing on the sofa, John picked up a magazine at random and hid behind it. He tried to ignore Sherlock as the man dropped his arms with a flourish and rushed to perch in his usual seat. Locking gazes with the skull, Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and did not speak for several long minutes. Behind his magazine, and definitely concentrating on reading, John jumped when the silence finally broke.

"Whether 'tis _nobler_ in the mind," Sherlock mused, "To suffer the slings and arrows of _outrageous _fortune…"

_National Geographic,_ thought John in panic. _Concentrate, Watson. Canyons, rivers, wonders of…_

"Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing…"

_… of nature…_

"…_end_ them?"

Sherlock was now striding up and down the sitting room in agitation, flailing his arms about and addressing the skull. John ducked instinctively. Flattening himself against the sofa cushions, he strove valiantly to concentrate on the printed words, but Sherlock began declaiming in a new vein with renewed energy and somehow the Grand Canyon couldn't compete.

The great detective collapsed to his knees, sobbing on the carpet. Something about rogues and peasant slaves. Tired as he was, John would gladly have fled to his bedroom at this point except that he rather suspected Sherlock had taken advantage of the extra laboratory space in his absence (Sherlock's artistic moods usually followed long periods of intensive scientific inquiry), and John would rather bear those ills he had than fly to others that he knew not of.

Before the army doctor could quell the panic and rage that threatened to engulf him at this thought (it was only a bloody raccoon last time, but as Sherlock had spent two hours yesterday flirting with Molly this week's experiments were bound to be _much_ worse) Sherlock had shifted modes again. This time the role apparently required a human confidante. John again found himself speechless as Sherlock's clear blue eyes locked onto his, relaxing into the most open expression of trust John had ever seen on his friend's face. There was a tinge of sorrow too.

"Thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart," the tall man murmured, collapsing to his knees and still gazing despondently at John.

"Er…what?" John managed to get out. Sherlock did not use the H-word, as a rule.

"But it is no matter."

Sherlock subsided and stared dully at the wall, the very picture of existential angst.

John tried desperately to recall the Shakespeare of his school days, but his mind unhelpfully fixed instead on the petite brunette who used to sit in front of him in Advanced English. He wrenched his mind forcefully back to the present as Sherlock resumed his babbling, obviously disappointed with his friend's lack of response.

"It is but foolery, but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman," he said bitterly.

John was starting to follow, just a bit. Sherlock brightened as he saw comprehension take hold.

"If you're worried about something, mate, take the time to think it over," John suggested.

"Not a whit!" exclaimed Sherlock, all relief wiped from his face. "We defy augery: there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come," he cast a sorrowful glance at his phone as the thing vibrated, "it will be now."

John, who had reached the limits of his fluency in Elizabethan language, hoped desperately that Lestrade had a crime scene engaging enough to distract Sherlock from his newest, and strangest phase. Such was to be…and yet, not to be.

Sherlock behaved perfectly normally during the cab ride. He stared out the window, lost in thought, and assumed his usual impatient manner as John counted out bills to pay the cabbie. John's palpable sense of relief, however, faded the moment Sherlock ducked beneath the yellow crime tape and grasped Anderson's hand in a warm handshake.

"Give me your pardon sir, I've done you wrong."

Anderson's spluttering was almost worth it, thought John as Sherlock continued: "But pardon it, as you are a gentleman."

Whirling, the detective addressed the open-mouthed Sergeant Donovan.

"This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd with sore distraction. What I have done, that might your nature, honor, and exception roughly awake, I here proclaim was…"

"Madness!" whispered Anderson to Lestrade, very audibly. "He's cracked at last, the way we always warned you…"

John, edging up to his friend, could not disagree. The detective was still rambling to a terrified Donovan, giving no sign that he had heard.

"Sherlock," murmured John. "You're giving everyone a bloody heart attack. Do you think you could—" Before he could finish, Sherlock had spun to glare at him.

"A bloody deed!"

"Sherlock…"

But Sherlock wasn't addressing John. He glowered over his shoulder.

"Almost as bad, dear _brother_…"

Not for the first time, John wondered how a man as heavy as Mycroft Holmes could sneak up on him so quietly.

"As kill a king, and lie about it to Mother."

Mycroft was unrepentant. "Now, now, little brother, you know how assassinations always upset Mummy. Still, in my temporary capacity as the British Secret Service, I would have considered it imprudent to pass up the opportunity to remove this particular individual from Denmark's throne…"

Bewildered, John at last spared the corpse a glance, lunging involuntarily back when he recognized it. Shock and relief melted quickly into trepidation; the indignation on Sherlock's part was doubtless disappointment at the loss of his favorite adversary. John braced himself for an angry tirade in iambic pentameter, but Sherlock's response left everyone a bit shocked.

Something like a tear traced down his face. Then his lips curved into a slight smile.

For the first time ever, the detective regarded his brother without open hostility.

"Do it, England," he murmured, lost in thought. "For like a hectic in my blood he rages…"

James Moriarty, erstwhile usurper of the throne of Denmark, was dead. John sensed a huge weight lifting from his shoulders. It felt suspiciously like a Semtex vest ripped away in a darkened swimming pool.

"…Sherlock?" Lestrade came forward, utterly confused. "So is it really him? I half-thought you were the one to off him, to tell you the truth…"

"Your grace hath laid the odd o' the weaker side," murmured Sherlock, still regarding his brother as thought he had never seen him before.

"Pardon?"

"This petty feud between us is simply childish," interrupted Mycroft. He held out a hand to Sherlock, and after a moment the detective took it. Mycroft's voice was as earnest as John had ever heard it.

"Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil free me so far in your most generous thoughts, that I have shot mine arrow o'er the house…"

Sherlock's voice caught as he finished in a whisper, "…and hurt my brother."

For the first time ever, the detective's eyes shone with genuine tears. John turned away from the weepy reunion between the Holmes brothers in open bewilderment. Anderson and Donovan had fainted. Lestrade appeared to be holding back tears.

It was several months and many cheery visits from Mycroft before John could bring himself to ask what had caused the brothers' alienation in the first place.

"Well, you see," began Sherlock (who had mercifully reverted back to the current Queen's English after being assured that nothing was rotten in the state of Denmark), "after our father, the late King of Denmark, died mysteriously in his garden, the throne was seized by Jim Moriarty…"

"Father's ghost appeared to us demanding revenge," Mycroft continued. "As you can imagine, Sherlock and I held differing opinions on how to settle the matter. I entered politics and was poised to seize the kingdom from the inside when Sherlock, opting for slightly more unorthodox methods, stabbed Polonius behind a curtain and was banished to England…"

"Let's not dwell on the past," muttered Sherlock, blushing.

"…resulting in the tragic demise of the only girl he ever loved and the inevitable betrayal of his friends at boarding school. His subsequent interest in theater and work as a detective was focused on uncovering evidence of Moriarty's treachery. Meanwhile, Fortinbras was marching down from the north…"

"Of course," Sherlock interrupted with a glare, "all of this occurred _after_ Mycroft took the advice of three dubiously trustworthy witches and hatched an ill-conceived plot to seize the…"

"You know what?" John had frantically stuffed his fingers in his ears. "I've decided I don't want to know."

* * *

**I probably should apologize for this. In my defense, it was really late at night.**

**So I'm sorry if it made no sense at all...**

**Please leave reviews and let me know what you think! If anyone else enjoyed this, I may**** experiment with Sherlockspeare in a less flippant style. Or a more flippant style. I must obey the inscrutable exhortations of my soul.**


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